Just Like Before, Today and Tomorrow
by MyMadness
Summary: Mrs Hughes watched as Charles Carson came into her parlor, closed her door, and then froze there...Ch. 6.  An End.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: Ok! I punched this into my phone when I was supposed to be sleeping. Pity me tonight at work. :( Then I engaged in my weird fic naming scheme which mandated that this fic title start with the letter J (you would think I have a Sesame Street hang up or something.)_**

**_So, I apologize for the odd title and therefore, odd last line._**

**_And I KNOW I should sit on this and edit it more, but it is just burning to leap up there. Does that make sense? Plus I work the weekend and will not have the time to work on this anyway. :( But I will have time to check my email to see if anyone read it. :)_**

/

Mrs. Hughes watched as Charles Carson came into her parlor, closed her door, and then froze there.

It had been a horrid day, she feels it as well, so she is not surprised he would want to sit a bit with her tonight.

"The rest of the staff has gone upstairs?" she asked as she replaced a book on her shelf.

"Yes, Elsie."

She stopped a second then, having only heard her first name come from him a few times before. She finished what she was doing and then walked closer to him. Studying him. He was feeling the strain of the day, she was sure.

"You did well today, Mr Carson. As always." She smiled at him then, quite consciously. "All of it was a frightful business, well managed."

There was a silence then while they both seemed to mentally review the recent horrors.

Her Ladyship had miscarried. There had been the announcement of war. The tense garden party guests. Lady Mary had turned distraught.

And a jilted Lady Edith had slammed no fewer than 4 doors on her way to her room. Dislodging 2 paintings. And breaking a china vase.

And below stairs, there had been another fist fight. Although this bust up had been blissfully short, as Mr. Bates had been involved. The valet had laid out Thomas quite efficiently over what Thomas had said about Anna's potential contribution to the war effort.

Really, Elsie mentally concluded, the sight of the first footman drooling on the floor in his insensibility had been the week's only bright spot.

But Mr. Carson did not want to talk about today, Mrs. Hughes decided, as she looked at the tall man's face.

She walked closer to get a better look at his color. To decide that he was, indeed, well.

Because, while _**he**_ ran the staff, _**she**_ looked after him in quiet moments like this. And that was a role she took quite seriously and performed to its fullest.

"Mr Carson?" she asked, as she raised a hand to test his cheek.

"Would you let me..." he said, sounding quite unsure. "Would you let me put my arms around you?"

"I must look undone," she concluded as she dropped her hand. "You are worried I might be affected after today's..."

He was standing there quite rigidly, still. So, she found his next words a bit surprising. "It's _me_ that needs _you_..."

She didn't make him say another word. Not after the years they had worked together. Stood together. Not after the days they'd had of late.

She took that last step, her arms extended. And she settled her head at his chest.

He closed his eyes and wrapped her up in his long arms. There came a sound of relief from his great chest.

And it was just like before, he reassured himself.

There had been an afternoon two years back when he had been so bold as this. She'd had a letter. The news was bad, he could see. And he had not hesitated. Had not even asked permission then. He had steered her from the hall to a secluded spot and tried to soothe her.

Because he had not always been a butler. A tin man. Charles Carson had been a man of obvious heart before.

Backstage, he had been that man the women had confided in and took comfort from. But somehow never chose. When he went into service, he didn't lose his heart. He assured himself of that. But he did lock it away, perhaps, a little too well.

He sighed into the housekeeper's hair as he thought of time lost and days spent alone. And after a blissful moment of registering only how good she felt against him, he began to worry.

"Am I making you uncomfortable. Be honest with me. Please," he whispered.

"Not at all," she told him.

But her voice seemed off, he noted. He bent his head to get a look at her.

"Why are you crying," he asked, softly. He kept one arm around her then and still managed to press his handkerchief into her hand.

"Because I can, I suppose. Because it isn't every day I have someone ..."

"You could... Have someone. "

Slowly then, so that she would have the time to object or stop him, he leaned closer. He touched his lips to hers gently and waited for her to respond.

She kissed him back. She did, he was sure of it. But just as quickly, she pulled away.

"Mr Carson? Charles."

"I'll go, Elsie," he said with a sad smile.

"I am trying to ask you to stay. Will you sit with me a while? Let me make you some tea?"

He was so heartened to hear her words, he could not answer. He needed to kiss her again.

Her kisses were not shy; she did not pull away. She kissed him like she'd thought of this before. The way he had dreamt of it, perhaps.

And he was frozen there now, considering it and her.

She put her hand to his face again and smiled hard. "Sit down, Charles. We've had a rough week and a rougher day."

"We are in this together," he tried.

"Yes. Or I couldn't possibly do it. Now sit," she admonished, as she took a step toward her couch.

Finally, they were sitting together, and he took her hand in his. "It isn't because of the war, Elsie. Or the pounds of unpleasantness we managed today. You have to believe me."

"Believe you what?"

"How much I needed to hold you. I can't explain other than to tell you that it comes from how I feel about you. How I have felt for you. For years. I should have kissed you years ago."

"You did," she said with a small smile. "Don't think I've forgotten." She reached up to brush at his hair then while she worked on the words. "When I'd got that terrible letter... telling me I'd lost my sister."

He nodded and then took her hand to kiss it.

"You saw me shaking there in the hall," she continued. "You pulled me into the pantry then. And held me. Rocked me. And let me cry. You _**told**_ me to cry. Which was the most blessed thing. And when I was done... you kissed me."

"Not proper kisses," he said.

"Perhaps, they were the best kisses I have ever had. Because you made me feel so... cared for. As if I was well loved."

"Because you are loved. Just like before, today, and tomorrow," he promised.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I got some nice nudges telling me to write more on these two. So, I gave it a go this morning.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

They sat on the settee, seeming emotionally ill-at-ease, even to themselves. The physical discomfort was obvious, as well. But likely unavoidable, she felt. After all, what did the two of them know about romantic flirtations, especially on the confines of a piece of parlor furniture? As she attempted to twist a bit more toward him, she decided these things were for those younger and braver than she.

But he had not given up. The movement of his hands on her was a constant. Soothing in one stroke and then electrifying. He traced her arms and back. Gentle fingers tickled across her neck. As she leaned into him to place an awkward kiss at his throat, she decided even his touch was fair and honest. It did not prefer one part of her over another. He didn't make her feel like a collection of parts, but rather like a whole that was well loved.

He was affecting her suddenly. All at once, what they were doing was not merely something vague and separate for her to consider and evaluate through the overactive swirl of her brain. A hand had settled at her hip, and she had felt her body change. There was a spark inside her then. A physical want she had tried to forget years ago.

She found both his hands and stilled them then, held them in her grasp.

He knew this was a sign. So, his voice was tentative when it came again. Worried that things might break. "What is it we are going to do?" he whispered into her hair.

"Think on it, I suppose. As unromantic as that sounds." Whether or not she moved as she spoke, her words conveyed a vague sort of shrug.

"Did you know how I felt?" he asked.

She focused on the buttons of his shirt while she thought what to say. And then she touched the tear stains there. "I knew you and I were good together. Working ...and not working. I was sure you thought well of me, well enough that you would talk with me about so many things. And I knew that you cared about me that you had comforted me as you did over my hurt. But to think that you _**loved**_ me? Oh, Charles. It seemed _**unwise**_ at best to even consider such a thing. "

"But you ... now? Do you love me, Elsie? Could you ever love me?"

And she realized that she knew exactly what his face would look like in that moment without even looking up at him. She knew him that well. His expressions and his mannerisms. His voice and his emotions. He was that much a part of her. And more, he was a part of her that she revered and depended on.

But could she ever love him? She hadn't thought about such a thing. Hadn't let herself.

"I think I could, Charles." She looked up then and petted at his hair. But her smile, when it came looked solemn and far away.

"Kiss me, Elsie?" And she knew him so well she heard the words that stayed inside him. She heard his doubt. _Kiss an old fool, h_e was thinking.

The kisses were gentle and easy. Their lips seemed to trip over each other quite pleasantly. And to Elsie it was as if it was all calling the girl she'd been to wake up.

At first, the kisses were barely even happening to her. There was a disconnect it seemed, the sense of distance down a wire.

How long was it then that she was kissing him, touching him, and being touched? It felt as though she was dreaming, asleep somewhere, and he had come to find her. Emotions and sensations she had lost were still there, she realized. They were being gently roused, like she was coming up from the grave or from some cold depth. Slowly, she was working toward the surface.

Charles was calling to her, begging her closer. He sounded far away to her, as if he was interrupting her dream. But he was close, she knew. She felt his breath at her ear. A bit of her did stir then and become his.

"Charles?" She sounded befuddled, she feared.

"I'm right here, love."

She said no more then, she just considered him. And them. And the tangle they had come to be together while they had kissed.

During her distraction, he had reclined on her couch. Somehow, he had even gotten his long legs up and under her. He had arranged _**her**_ then, apparently. He had even managed to pull her up and against his chest.

She seemed to remember that with a hand to her thigh (she blushed at the thought) he had encouraged her to stretch her legs out along his.

And taking stock now, it seemed obvious they had really done every bit of that.

"Are we too old for this sort of thing?" she asked him.

"Apparently, not." He seemed overly proud, really.

"Charles," she admonished. "I'm serious."

"No. You are being negative. The two are different."

"Is it so wrong to be scared?"

"No," he told her with a sympathetic shake of his head.

"Well, how can you be so sure of this?"

"I'm not thinking in too complicated a fashion, I suppose. I'm just listening at last to what my... well, my heart is saying," he said, seeming a little embarrassed at such talk. "I just know I could do this every night. Lie here. Hold you. Talk with you. For years, I didn't listen. Today, I did. I don't want to go back now." That last line of his had seemed plaintive. _Don't tell me we have to go back to the way it was_, he was saying.

He kissed her then in a way designed to convince. He wanted her to see what he could, that they could be together. At once comfortable and even exciting.

She was embarrassed to hear herself gasp as he pulled back a minute later. "No one has kissed me like that in many, many years." She knew she'd gone breathless and rosy cheeked.

"Kissed you that badly you mean?" he said with a smile. "I am ridiculously out of practice."

She considered the man beneath her on the couch. He was sweet and caring. Funny in the right measure. And reliable. So good at what he did.

"No wonder I'm so fond of you," she concluded.

"Because I'm out of practice?" he rumbled. And then he nearly grinned.

God, that smile. She felt rewarded whenever she saw it, she realized. And she felt a tad warmer now. She pulled him tighter and tried to think. What was this? Is this love then?

Joy, perhaps? Could she use the word 'bliss' without feeling like a second rate poet? She laughed then into his waistcoat.

"What, Elsie?" And when she didn't answer right away, he rocked her in his arms as if to wake her.

"You make me happy, Charles. Quite simply."

"But that's not a simple thing at all, is it? It is wondrous and rare, I think, to find someone who can do that. At least from where I stand."

After a few seconds, they both laughed at the shared, unspoken joke, _"But, yes, you are lying down now, aren't you, Charles."_

_/ / / / _


	3. Chapter 3

_/ / / / _

**_A/N: Um, okay. I apologize from the get go on this one. I got carried away. Do stop reading at the little dots ... ... ... ... if the notion of old people enjoying their time in bed frightens you. Although, really, I suggest you get used to it if you want it to be you one day. :) _**

**_If I was fair with my fics like a good parent, I would be posting a chapter of my Lewis story. That has languished. Even my Anna / Bates is more in need of an update. But you get these two old tortoises on a couch together and they beg to have things tidied up._**

_/ _

"These are your evenings free, too. You should feel that you can get comfortable," Mrs. Hughes told Carson as she helped him off with his coat.

"And if someone comes here looking for me?" he asked in his great rumbling voice of doubt.

"I will tell them you aren't here, and you will hide behind the couch, I suppose! " He laughed at her cheek and watched as she hung up his coat - so it would not be seen - just in case they did have that visitor that he ended up hiding from.

And now, he stood and surveyed her couch. Yet again. As if he did not already know the truth. "I wish it was humanly possible to get comfortable on that thing! "

"We are at an impasse there," she agreed as she came up to him.

"We could spend an evening in my bed room?" he suggested less than seriously.

She rolled her eyes in reply.

"Or outside in the yard," he tried then.

"I wouldn't dream of displacing Anna and Mr Bates," she said, under her breath.

"What?" he asked distractedly.

"Nothing."

It was not exactly a routine that developed in the days to come, but more a new sense of comfort. He would take off his coat, tie and waistcoat. And even his shoes. She would often change into her nightgown and robe. There was cocoa and foot rubs. There was conversation and what canoodling the small couch allowed.

"If we could just stretch out better," he complained, as he tried to wrap himself around her.

"Do not even think of suggesting the rug at our ages," she told him with that serious cast to her eyebrows that always made him want to obey.

But he had been noticing that the floor was a better expanse of real estate.

Sometimes Charles would give up on any attempt at reclining and merely sit on the couch. Even then his large frame made the poor thing look small. But he would coax Elsie to sit in his lap. She would work a hand into his shirt. Perhaps he might bite at her neck. And she would see how tired and uncomfortable he was later and regretfully send him off to his room.

She wanted him to stay. A man needed to be able to take off his shoes and tie, and put up his feet. Maybe take a nap after his supper. And neither of them had a space where he could do that with her in the evenings.

/ / / /

She was making her typical rounds a few weeks later when a commotion drew her to the family's sitting room. "I feel as if we should celebrate," Lady Grantham was saying. "Finally, we are getting rid of this horrible monstrosity, and we can have something more delicate and fitting in here."

The 'horrible monstrosity,' Mrs Hughes now saw, was the room's old couch. It had been a purchase of His Lordship's. Oversized. Ill-colored. And today was obviously the day, Lady Grantham had emerged victorious in her efforts to have the beastly thing removed from the house.

Only it was not looking quite so beastly, the housekeeper realized. As she turned her head to regard it from its different angles and make the necessary calculations, she thought it would do quite well. Indeed.

Lady Sybil was laughing as she watched the proverbial spectacle of three men and a boy wrestling with the piece of furniture. "They will never make it as far as the attic, Mother. Let them give up."

"Do you need a place to store that, Madam?" Elsie ventured.

"I need an anonymous rubbish tip to put it in that Lord Grantham can never find," Lady Grantham replied with a devious smile.

"Leave it to me," Mrs Hughes told Her Ladyship. "I'll put it in..."

But the lady of the house raised a hand to stop any further conversation. "Please, Mrs. Hughes, don't tell me! If I was captured, and I knew the location of this... couch, I might be made to talk. We can't have that, can we?"

"No, ma'am."

/ / / /

Charles was reviewing a ledger and chewing a pencil as he walked the halls of his domain. Normally, this wasn't a problem as everyone on staff was so well trained that they stayed out of his way. But today as he rounded the corner to enter Mrs. Hughes' parlor he ran into her moving crew. Once they had bounced off him, apologized and then cleared off, Mr. Carson was free to see just why the party had been in the housekeeper's room.

"It's..." he began.

"It's a couch," she helped.

He closed the door behind him, but whispered nonetheless.

"It looks even larger hemmed in down here. You've had to move out a chair, I see, and that little table," he assessed.

"Yes, but... it solves some of our problems."

There was a long silence after which he offered up, "From where I'm standing, it actually creates some." He was staring at the couch, and she could see his thoughts. If this over sized furniture made more amorous activities possible, then they were going to need that discussion about what 'things' they might engage in.

"Charles?"

"It is about the size of my bed, I'd say." And he swallowed hard.

"Lie down. Give it a try," she encouraged.

He checked the door. And then his watch. She suspected he was allotting himself 4 and a half minutes to try out the couch, have a conversation, fix his clothing, and then get back to work. While she held his coat, he stretched out on the new furniture. And groaned satisfactorily – more like a man than a butler.

"There's room for a whole 'nother person here."

"You don't say," she dead panned.

He walked over to her and leaned in close, his hands on her arms and his lips at her ear. "Will you spend the night with me here, Elsie? I'm not saying that I need or want ... I'm not suggesting an agenda," he amended.

"I've some sheets in that cupboard and a blanket," she said matter of factly.

"Since when?" He wanted to know drawing back to have a better look at her.

"Since I acquired a couch the size of a bed."

/ / / / / / / /

That night, he worried that he would make her uncomfortable or skittish as he let his hands roam at her waist. They were lying side by side now on their new couch, snug under their covers. She was in her pajamas and he in his shirt and trousers.

"This is going to be a problem," she told him, as she traced his jaw with her finger tips.

"Tell me why, Elsie." He didn't want to push, but he understood how important it was that he know.

"You'll make me want something more."

"What's wrong with wanting more?" he asked gently.

"Oh, Charles," she sighed sadly, rather than giving him an answer.

"Is it that you think we shouldn't? Or that you are afraid?"

"Oh, both, I suppose. I don't know that I think its wrong just because we aren't married. And I'm not fishing for a proposal," she told him, quickly. "But there is something in me that would feel obligated to believe it was wrong. Does that make sense?"

"It does. It's the way we were raised. The expectation we were set. ... But you are afraid, as well?" he prompted.

"With that sort of ...physical thing there is the always the chance of near mortal embarrassment," she said with some humor. "There is the danger that no one's expectations will be met. Then there is the awkwardness. The inconveniences. And the mess."

"You've had a bad experience," he surmised.

"A hundred years ago now it was, I think," she said with a sad smile. "And no sooner had said footman finished seducing me, that he took a position somewhere else. His concept of 'love' and 'forever' being slightly askew with mine."

"Oh, my dear." And Charles' kisses then were of the healing variety, she decided. And most effective. "That would not be us," he assured her. Finally, he risked asking, "It was awful then? Did he hurt you?"

"Not that he meant to, I'm sure. But those few liaisons were all definitely more his idea than mine. Mostly, it seemed like wrestling... and a bit of being crushed."

"Crushed," he repeated. "And here I am the size of a house. Not that you are considering..."

"I don't know what I'm considering."

"Of course," Charles said quickly, to speed the awkwardness away. "Now, shush... and let me hold you."

He had already placed a hand at the small of her back and gently drawn her to him so that they were touching all along their bodies.

She closed her eyes and relaxed into him.

"Oh, Charles," she sighed. And her voice was still full of confusion and past regrets.

"Shhh," he told her softly. "You only have to tell me what you want. I take direction well." There was his sweet smile in his voice.

He was comfort and warmth to her, she felt it quite tangibly as she tightened her hold on him. "I love you, Charles." And she tipped her head back and looked up from his chest so he could kiss her.

"I love you," he told her in between kisses.

And he continued then in his soothing tones. "We won't... Not tonight. Just let me hold you, love. Just let me kiss you." And he said this over and over. Softly. And he punctuated each sentence with his touch and with his lips on her throat and jaw.

... ... ... ...

There was something drivingly erotic in the denial. In the sense of a physical limit. He felt the increasing need like a pulse through him. And he suspected, given the way she was responding, that the words he told her,_ "We won't...,"_ freed her up to act as she wanted.

She steadied his chin then so she could kiss him properly. And she moved her hands to his shirt to work it free.

Her breath came a little faster then as she pushed her hands inside the open garment. "I want to touch you," she told him. "You are so warm," she murmured. "So dear to me."

"Just let me hold you, love." He whispered it like a lullaby. "We won't..." he put his hand inside her robe now to rub her back through just the thin fabric of her night dress.

Her kiss then was suddenly needy and unsure. He answered it, but with calm touches. With the steady pressure of his lips on hers.

"Please, Charles. More?"

"Shhh," he tried to soothe. But he widened his touch then. His hand ghosted along the side of her breast to grip at her waist. And he repeated those attentions. "A little more. But just let me hold you tonight," he offered.

This way lay insanity, he was sure. But it was both of these tacks that the uncertain woman needed: The words that reassured that they would not take things any farther and the touches that answered her increasing need.

He was making love to the woman while whispering that he was not. And it was that, he was sure, that she was responding to. It allowed her to make love to him with no risk, to feel that she could stop at any point.

Her hand was running firmly along his bare back now, and he whispered to her how good that felt.

They kissed again. So achingly slowly. His hand slipped to her hip to trace the roundness there and to her thigh. He was mesmerized by what his touch told him; she was wearing nothing beneath her night gown. With a groan, he remembered himself then. And stopped. Pulled back his touch and in between the heated kisses that contradicted him, he told her, "I won't... We won't... Just..."

She deepened their kisses with a greedy moan. Her fingers tugged at his waist band as he sought to pull away. "Please, Charles?" she whispered almost shyly. "I think we could."

He couldn't. There was no success in this. Not with her last time being at the hands of a horrid lover. And not with him being a giant 58 year old fumbler likely to crush her. On a couch.

"Off," she told him. And the command woke him from his thoughts. Was he pressing too close, he worried? "Your _trousers_," she clarified. "Charles. Off."

There was no talk then. Just the soft grunts that accompanied the work of seeing his last remaining items of clothing to the floor.

"You want to, Charles. I know you do," she told him shyly, as she touched the evidence.

"Of course, I do. I love you madly. But I don't want to be another experience you regret."

"You old fool, how could I regret you?"

But she would, he knew, if it was a claustrophobic affair with her pinned beneath him and hemmed in by the back of the couch. He wouldn't risk overwhelming her. Wouldn't roll over to her despite how she had begun to pull gently at his shoulder.

"Trust me?" he asked her as they lay side by side. He reached for her knee to slowly raise it.

Until she was higher. Where he needed her.

"Hold my hand," he whispered. She seemed confused, but she complied. "I want to touch you, but I don't want to do anything you don't want." They locked eyes then. And held their breath. He moved their hands then and used a single finger to brush her intimately.

He couldn't help but smile to see the reaction he got. Her eyes closed. She moaned. He would have to say she melted then, if pressed for a word.

"But we won't... he whispered. "Not tonight."

"Oh, we will, Charles. Please," she nearly begged. "Tell me we will."

He pushed her a little higher then and pulled her knee gradually to rest above his hip bone. She gasped at the intimate contact that resulted. But the reality was, they were just barely touching. Not yet joined.

"Put your arms around me, love. Do you want me 'closer'?"

She did.

Her hand was at his waist. There was the barest pause, and she drew him to her.

Mrs. Hughes made love to her butler then. Claimed him. Pulled him in tight against her.

Pulled him, _ inside deep where I need him_, she thought.

Euphemisms and the bitter past be damned.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Years ago, my grandmother was a young nurse, and for some reason, they were not allowed to be married. So, she and my grandfather drove the hour to the next city and were married there. In secret. **_ _**Read enough of my fan fiction and you will know my entire history.**_

_**Strong T in the last few paragraphs. Sorry. I got a little carried away. Sigh. I am rushing here. Let me know it is okay?**_

/ / /

"All right?" Charles asked quietly from his spot beside her.

"Much more than right," Elsie assured him, sleepily.

"Really?"

"Will you _always_ require constant reassurance?"

"In matters such as this, perhaps," came his low, melodic reply. There was a sigh then and a kiss to the top of her head. "I worry about keeping you happy," he confessed.

"Go get ready for the day," she said gently, as she started to smile. "And you can walk about proud as a peacock knowing you make this impossible woman quite content."

… … …

They didn't end up together every night. It just wasn't practical. Nor was it wise if they wanted to stay discreet.

And every night that they did end up together was not about the physical, necessarily.

The relationship was odd, it was difficult, it was strained, but only because of where and how they lived. In quiet moments, when fear and borrowed propriety were banished, they were two ridiculously happy people. And so they continued on like that for months.

…

"Elsie? Please," he said late one evening as they sat together in her parlor. "Will you marry me?"

Was it that he was scared things wouldn't last otherwise. Or was the man worried about something else, she wondered.

"Tell me why, before I tell you 'yes,' " she insisted.

"I love you."

"I know you love me. You loved me yesterday and the day before. But today..."

"Elsie..." he tried to plead.

"Today," she said firmly, "Daisy needed to be taken off to hospital for that cut, and we were, thankfully awake and clothed when we were sought in my parlor..."

"It is only a matter of time before someone takes ill in the middle of the night. There could be any manner of emergency. And they will not find me in my room ...but rather in your bed or here. So I want to marry you."

"So that when we get caught beneath the sheets, you can know that my _**honor**_ is defended if not my _**dignity**_?" she tried to joke.

"Is it such a horrible thing, Elsie, that I would want to tell them, 'She's my wife. We've done nothing wrong.' Are you really arguing that you want to sacrifice honor because you doubt your dignity can be saved?"

"No. I'm not arguing," she said lowly. " Actually, I'm considering resigning the fight." She leaned over then and kissed the man tenderly. "I will marry you. Gladly."

… … …

With his time off, he went to Ripon to start the paperwork. In Ripon, no one knew them. It was big enough that they would be unnoticed. No gossip would get back to the house. They would be married, but seemingly not.

It was only 2 weeks later that they were a bit caught out while still unmarried. The young hall boy was hot to find Mrs. Hughes for Miss O'Brien, and he thought the words Elsie called out in response to his knock were an invitation to enter.

They were, thank God, dressed. Elsie was in her work dress still, the top button undone. Her shoes were off, but the boy didn't seem to notice. A mere moment before, Elsie had had her stockinged feet in the lap of the out-of-uniform butler who sat on her couch.

That was enough. That she was caught shoeless. That he was seen on her couch without his coat. That their heart rates had had to endure what happens when older lovers are thoroughly startled apart.

As they looked at each other and considered their narrow escape, they knew any time table they had, was now moved up. As the family was in London to spend time with Lord Grantham who had rejoined his regiment, it seemed now was the time.

/ / / / / / / / / / /

The wedding was a business-like affair at the registry. But it was accomplished. They were happy as the rode back toward Downton Abbey, yes. But worried now for wholly new reasons. Now they had one more secret they were not telling the world. One more way they could be revealed. If their employer knew they had married, perhaps, they'd be let go.

Elsie had no idea Charles was planning on stopping them on their way back. They reached a fork in the road. Barely a fork, really, because the road off to the right was never used any more. It went nowhere as best anyone knew.

"Charles," Elsie questioned with a squint. "Do you know where you are going?"

"Yes."

"This road doesn't go anywhere."

"All the better," he told her, and he patted her knee.

Behind a row of overgrown hedges, there stood the ruins of an old farm house.

"Charles?" she questioned with some suspicion.

He got down from his seat and guided the horses in behind the hedges then, to park near the house's front door. He set the brake with a sense of purpose that she noted. "The rig is safe here for the moment, Elsie. Before we rush back home, let a husband indulge himself?"

She smiled hard at both his words and his desire to spend a quiet moment with her.

"You feel so good to me," he whispered as he lowered her to the ground. "Just to have my hands on you," he admitted sounding honest, and near flustered.

He wouldn't let go of her, and so, he pushed open the old house door with his back as he guided her in.

"What are we doing here?" she wondered, looking up at the holes in the ceiling.

He was kissing her then, hard and full. And it was a beautiful work of distraction. She never suspected Charles would bend to scoop her up.

"You'll drop me," she pretended to complain.

"Not until I'm good and ready," he teased back.

"Where are you taking me?" she whispered into his coat.

"Shhh, please, woman. This is a seduction. Not a discussion."

"This is not a seduction, Charles. Please." But his progress was unimpeded now. His steps determined.

"Over the threshold with you, Mrs. Carson."

"Oh, my God, I do love you," she laughed.

He stepped sideways through a doorway into a side room, and there she saw a picnic blanket spread out over an old rug. To the side there was a bottle of wine and two glasses covered by one of his handkerchiefs. And a satchel.

Once he had set her feet on the ground, he pulled off his coat. He sat then and worked to pull her down, too.

"Charles?"

"We haven't as much time as I would like."

"What is all this?" she asked.

"When I came to inquire after the arrangements 2 weeks ago, I left all of this here. You deserve a proper wedding and a proper honeymoon. But this is the best I can do for now."

She took off her hat. His had been dropped in the room outside this one, in the excitement. And while he managed the wine and the wine glasses, she worked the buttons on his shirt open.

"Are we really going to...?" she whispered.

"I'm content to share some wine with you. To just enjoy a moment or two outside the house."

She appreciated his words. Considered them. But found she could not keep her hands from him. Once she had his shirt open, she wordlessly worked the button at the top of his trousers.

He was amazed by her, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She started on her clothes then, and he forgot the wine. She had her coat off quickly, while he kissed her and then drew back to watch. As she unbuttoned her blouse, he trailed a finger down, marking the skin she exposed. With her blouse behind her now, she rose up to her knees so that the skirt could better be removed. And she told him, simply, "Please."

His sure hands had it off her in a few smooth seconds.

"I'm cold," she whispered to him.

"Come closer then." He held her to him, but then eased her down to lie on the blanket. He followed.

"Shouldn't we hurry?" she wondered, feeling horribly unromantic and like a bit of a traitor.

"I want it to be perfect," he answered. "There's another blanket in that bag," he told her then. And when she had turned back around from retrieving it, she found her husband had divested himself of his shoes and trousers. He lay down at her side in the same moment that she covered him with the blanket.

"Do you want me?" he questioned, almost casually.

"Oh, yes," she assured him with a tremor to her voice.

His hands gently pulled at her undergarments while he kissed her then. She was naked with him under the blanket now as a result of his soft coaxing.

"You don't mind?" he asked, obviously meaning the setting and the lack of a bed.

"How could I mind?" she said. "You went to all this trouble to give us a bit of a honeymoon. How could I possibly mind, you sweet man?"

"Roll over first," he urged.

She blanched. She was not in the habit of purposely presenting her bare bottom to him.

"Let me rub your back," he whispered.

She was uncomfortable at first, feeling more naked, if such a thing was possible. And, of course, his hand did not stay to her back. As he rubbed her bottom, first one side and then another, she tried not to tense.

"Charles, that's not my back."

"I just thought..."

"You've never before."

"Perhaps I thought you needed to be married to take such a liberty?" He kissed down her spine then, and she sighed. "I have a request," he said at last. She held her breath and tried to remind herself that she knew this man, and that it was unlikely the request was going to be anything illegal or immoral.

"Your request?" she asked as levelly as possible, given that he was cupping her bottom in his large palm.

"When we are on the stairs together, I would like you to always walk up first. I do like to follow you. Brightens my day, you might say."

"Charles Carson!" she teased. "We been married all of two hours, and I am ready to say I don't know you!"

"I'm sorry. I'm just so happy, I suppose. I'm out of my head." They were quiet then a while and she began to relax into his attentions. She began to shift under his touch with the enjoyment of it as he massaged not just her buttocks, but finally her back, as promised.

"Do you remember," he then began, "that morning on the stairs?"

"Of course, I do. Do you think about that often?" she wondered.

"No more than twice a day." He was laughing then. She felt it in the kisses that he placed into her shoulder blades.

On that morning 4 weeks back, she had been on the servants' stairs just ahead of him. She had thought she'd heard him groan, but had not turned around.

… … …

_And as they reached a bend where they would not be seen from the doorway below, she felt his hand on her hip. She turned to look at him._

_And it was true, she thought in that moment. It was like those romantic novels made it sound. You could take one look at a man's face and know that he wanted something carnal. _

_He pressed himself against her quickly with her the one stair higher. And being Charles Carson, he apologized before he went any further. Then he kissed her very, very thoroughly with one hand splayed so low on her back that she had no doubt he wanted it lower. _

"_Devil," she whispered as they eased apart. Then she pulled him in again and kissed him back. It was the sort of action she termed a 'bedroom kiss,' because that was the only place someone should be doing something that unchaste. And, God help her, here she was, on the house's backstairs with the butler. _

"_I've lost my mind," she near panted as she stepped a stair higher and away._

"_It's my fault," he told her. _

"_What prompted all of this, is what I don't understand," she said then_.

… … …

Only now, lying there with him in that deserted old house, with his hands trailing across her back from shoulders to thigh, she thought she knew what had caused it all that morning.

He rolled her with a hand to her hip. And when she was on her side and facing away, he drew himself in close behind her. He loved to hold her like this. One arm cradled her head. His free hand, held her securely to him. She moaned as he kissed at her neck. He teased her then with that free hand. Smoothing across her ribs, cupping her breasts in turn. And then his fingers trailed down to excite her further. And after a few moments of the most intimate touching, he lightly grasped her leg to lift it to rest on his.

She gasped at the new feeling. Decadent and open. It should feel wrong, she was sure. But instead, something about his attentions made her feel divinely young and powerful.

"I could just slip inside you, Elsie. Like this. Would you let me?"

"I've never..."

"Me neither," he confessed at her ear.

"Gently, then," she told him.

But any fears were unfounded. It was gentle. And it was sweet and full feeling. Then, as the sensation built, it was heart-poundingly insane.

He eased away, and she rolled to him with a sigh. He petted her hair and kissed her, watching her, enjoying her disheveled satisfaction.

"My God, I love you, Charles," she said at last. Seeing her recovered, he pushed against her. Kissed her neck.

He needed her still, she realized.

"Come here," she urged.

He moved over her then and into her.

And with patience, they managed things they never would have managed on her couch.

"I've never before..." she sighed later.

"Not twice, you mean."

"Yes. I'm... " and she meant to say 'completely undone.' But she was not in direct communication with her body any more. She was sort of removed from it. She had no control over movement or speech. Instead, she just floated there behind closed eyes.

She was not sure how much later it was when she heard him whisper at her ear, "I'll go check on the horses. And then I'll return and put you back together."

She hummed her agreement. And smiled.

Mrs. Carson was a spoiled woman, it seemed to her.

/ / / / / / / / / / /

_NEXT TIME: "They just seem married," the hall boy was saying in the servants' hall. Miss O'Brien scoffed at first and then she definitely stopped scoffing. She began to consider that there just might be something between the two senior servants. _


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: The tone of this one took off on its own. This morning, the sketch I had of this chapter did not look at all like this. I blame pixies!**_

_**Thank you for all the lovely reviews. You keep me going at this.**_

* * *

"Do they not have the same last name so there's no confusion?" Peter, the new hall boy, asked from the doorway of the kitchen.

"Whatever are you talking about?" the cook said with her hands placed firmly on her hips.

"Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson."

"They don't have the same last name," Mrs. Patmore called back from her spot at the stove, "because they aren't related!" She turned then, laughing and lifted the lids on her boiling pots.

"They just _seem_ married," the boy continued saying.

Miss O'Brien scoffed at first when she heard all this, and then she definitely stopped scoffing. She began to consider that there might be something between the two senior servants.

The boy had the advantage of seeing the pair afresh, the lady's maid realized. He had not adjusted to the closeness in their relationship as it had developed over time. He had merely made his observation based on what he knew. Peter knew the comfortable stance and patter the two shared. And not being wise enough to know that the butler could never be married to the housekeeper, he just assumed they were.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

It was a contrivance, Charles decided soon after the door swung open. Elsie, too, saw it for the set up it was even as it was unfolding.

The boy, Peter, would not have opened the door without knocking if O' Brien had not told him to. She had pretended that she had things to bring to the parlor, that her arms were full. She had likely told the hall boy there was no one in the room.

But why would Mrs. Hughes ever have needed an armful of last year's dresses dropped off in her parlor, no matter what was wrong with them... and at that hour? Miss O' Brien's ruse was horribly transparent. She'd gone _**that**_ cocky, the housekeeper guessed.

Luckily, Mrs. Hughes was dressed. But she was, however, fussing over the man when the door opened. She was holding his coat and standing with a hand to his cheek. It was the way she looked at the butler that spoke volumes, though.

The butler looked equally focused. Charles had bent his head towards Elsie. And his hand was at her waist.

Charles looked past the boy to see who was really the culprit of their deliberate unmasking. He did not remove his hand from Elsie. He would not be intimidated or made to feel ashamed. "There is a reason we knock in this house," he growled at Miss O'Brien. "I will be out in 2 minutes time and you may speak with us then, if you wish." But he knew O'Brien's goal had been accomplished. No one would be waiting when he left the room.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"What do we do, then?" Elsie asked as she sank into the couch later.

Charles sat down beside her and shook his head. "We can wait and see what she does with the scandalous knowledge that I am in love with the housekeeper," he said as he squeezed her hand. "Or we can march off and tell Lady Grantham that we are married and that our relationship is now publicly known."

The housekeeper growled as she kicked off her shoes. And with a perverse sense of eschewing any decorum, she pulled a low table closer so that she could put her feet up.

"Well, to hell with O'Brien, I say."

"I second that," Charles said as he too set loose his shoes and put up his feet. "But that doesn't tell me what you'd rather do."

"Well, I'll not make her work easy for her. Let her plot and plan. Let her run around spreading the story that you had your hand at my waist of all ungodly things. And we will act as if we just don't care. She probably thinks we'll offer her a bribe to keep quiet. I want to watch the confusion on that little rat face when we do not squirm an inch for her."

"Feeling vindictive, Elsie?" he chortled.

"A tad, perhaps. I was going to have my way with you tonight," she joked. "And I am afraid that woman has ruined the mood. God knows, she will be hovering out there all night to see what time you go off to your room now. And she'll be listening from the hall way until you do."

Charles smiled wickedly and leaned over to kiss at a particularly ticklish spot on his wife's neck. Elsie giggled involuntarily and then pulled away. She looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. "You did that on purpose. You are trying to make me laugh because you know I think she is out there."

"Would I do that?" he asked in his low, wicked tones.

She leaned in and kissed him then... and goosed him behind the knee at the same time. She got the rumbling amused objection that she knew she would. "Yes," Elsie declared impishly. "You _**would**_ do that..." and as she leaned into kiss him again, he felt her fingers travel up his thigh.

"Don't you dare!" he laughed and pushed her hands away.

"I'm faster than you," she informed him.

"Ah, but I'm stronger," he told her as he pinned her arms to her sides and leaned in toward that spot on her neck again.

Anyone listening would certainly decide these two did not sound like illicit lovers worried over being caught out.

But then they did not sound like the housekeeper and butler of Downton Abbey, either.

/ / / / /

"They were laughing in there last night. Giggling." Miss O'Brien sniffed.

"Gah!" Mrs. Patmore dismissively intoned. "Giggling? You've gone mad. Must have been a record she had on."

"I am telling you they are unnaturally fond of each other." At this, Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes. "_Physically_ fond of each other," O'Brien insisted.

"And so what if they are?" the cook wanted to know. "Are you jealous then of the one or the other? Or do you just hate to see a bit of happiness? Perhaps after breakfast you could go drown some kittens, and you'll feel better about the world..."

A deflated Miss O'Brien stood stock still in the hallway then - until a cheerful butler suggested she chose a side to stand against, lest she be run down.

/ / / /

"You heard her then, peddling her story to Mrs. Patmore?" Elsie wanted to know that night.

"She managed no harm," Charles said, as they stood in her parlor. "Still, I thought perhaps we could roll some cricket balls around the place tonight. Bounce a few..."

"I tell you what I'd like to do! I'd take a cricket ball and put it in a sock and then I'd bounce it... bam! Right off...

"Elsie!" her husband admonished.

His wife was pacing now behind the couch.

"Calm down and come here," he whispered.

"Make me," she said.

"What?" he asked. And as he came around the edge of the couch to reach for her, she skirted around the other end.

"'Make me,' I said," she turned her head as she said it as if projecting for a wider audience. "But you'll need to catch me."

He worked toward her faster, smiling now, but objecting too.

"Elsie, this is infantile."

"You won't think so if you catch me. Catch me and it becomes worth your while." She scooped up a couch pillow then and shied it at him.

He ducked and then admonished her, "You are only making this harder on yourself!"

"Promise?" she asked.

"Devil," he groaned then as he squeezed the arm of the couch. He laughed as he thought about what any spy would have made out of the last 10 minutes of noises coming from the parlor. The sound of their chase, the pillow bouncing off the wall, their laughing shouts.

/ / / / / / / / / /

The next morning, the lady's maid was trying to tell her version of events to Mrs. Patmore.

"Oh, Aye. They were chasin' each other about and carryin' on. And throwin' things at the walls. I haven't time for any of your drunken imaginings, please!" the cook yelled.

"It might not be her imagination," Daisy chimed in, as she walked by with a tray.

"See," Miss O'Brien said with satisfaction.

"It might be pixies."

Mrs Patmore's happy laughter rang off the walls for a good ten minutes after that. She was hard pressed to finish breakfast as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Really, Mrs. Patmore. I don't want to darken your mood," the housekeeper said as she entered the kitchen. "But you are frightening the younger staff. Whatever has possessed you."

"Pixies. Apparently they are everywhere. Word is, they live in your parlor at night."

"Mrs. Patmore?"

"Stone sober, I swear. Although I can't vouch for Miss O'Brien," the cook said with a crook of her thumb over her shoulder.

/ / /


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: I have missed having the time to write. Such madness here. I worked 11 days straight and extra hours here and there. **__**I know work will call tonight to tell me they are short again. So, I am getting this done now...**_

_**Thanks for all the lovely reviews and comments. **_

_**This is my last chapter, so bask in all the Carson – Hughes goodness with me. And let me know you are still out there.**_

* * *

"We need to do something, you know that, don't you?" Charles Carson said, as gently as he had ever said a thing.

He sat down next to his wife then as she pulled her stockings on, and he smiled. He had never in his life imagined a sight such as this would become so blessedly ordinary that he could have a conversation while he watched it.

"Elsie," he prompted when she didn't answer.

She stood now that she was all properly put together. She smoothed out her dress and heaved a sigh. "Yes, I know it. But do you want to go to Lady Grantham now and confess all this. Is this the best time?"

"You are wondering if this is a good time to lose our positions?" he tried to smile.

"To be blunt."

"We've put away enough money over the years that we will be fine should it come to that. Fine until something else comes along."

"There's no avoiding this, I suppose." Was she asking him or telling him, he wondered.

"Do you wish we had never..." he felt compelled to ask.

"Of course not. I have never, never been so happy as since I married you." She gave him a good natured thump on the chest.

"I think things could be better still," he told her. "I want a chance to actually _**live**_ as if we are married, Elsie. Do you understand? That is part of why I am willing to tell the family."

"I do understand. Now come closer and kiss me or I'll never make it through the day in this mad house."

/ / /

But they were beaten to the punch.

Carson was called to see Mrs. Crawley in library. Sensing this was the end to their charade and possibly their careers, he lingered long enough below stairs to drag the housekeeper into the pantry. Against everything the dire situation demanded, he smiled at her. He petted her cheek and asked, "Do you know how much I love you?"

"Enough to marry me despite all this insanity we've caused?"

"Something like that."

And he kissed her like a younger man. Like the bravest of men. A man with nothing to prove - because he possesses absolute surety.

He picked her up and twirled her gently then.

"I love you, you crazed, darling thing," she told him, gently. Once on her feet, she said, "Wipe that satisfied look off your face. And go."

/ / / / / / /

The library was a tense place before the butler even arrived. He was surprised to see that Lady Sybil was there, especially because he could tell that Lady Grantham did not want her there. It seemed the young woman knew something of what was happening and had refused to leave.

Lady Grantham turned when Carson entered and after a tongue tied pause, she managed, "I have heard some odd things about you Mr. Carson. And, unfortunately, we need to discuss this."

"Yes ma'am."

"I have been told that there is some irregular behavior below stairs... that it involves you and Mrs. Hughes..."

"Might we get her then, Ma'am?" Carson asked in all innocence. "Should she not be here if she is suspected of something?"

"I'll get her," Sybil offered too quickly. And at something just short of a run, the young woman was out of the door.

Carson had the advantage in the room suddenly. He could stand as impassively as the pyramids while they waited. And he did. He was that well trained.

But more. He was married. He saw now how right that decision had been. They could not blacken his good woman's name. Because he had not done anything more than marry the woman and attempted to live as such.

The only causes of impropriety suddenly were the rules of this fine house.

Elsie, when she arrived, did not enter with the youngest daughter. Nor alone. Mary was now with Sybil.

"Girls!" Mrs. Crawley moaned.

"Sybil told me you were arranging nothing short of a firing squad, Mother. Just what is going on?"

"If I might," Mr. Carson said. "I would venture to guess that Miss O'Brien has complained about us."

"Yes," Cora replied. And the fact that the man showed absolutely no shame disconcerted her some what.

"She has figured out that there is a relationship between us. But she has not, perhaps, come to understand that we are married."

They were arranged in frozen silence. The two daughters and Lady Grantham stood staring from one side of the room at the now revealed Mr. and Mrs. Carson on the other.

It was Sybil who roused herself first. She crossed the distance and offered her congratulations and a broad smile to the pair.

Lady Grantham shook her head as if to clear it. "I don't know if this is better or worse than what I had imagined, but it is rather more permanent." The woman lowered herself to a chair as if the disclosure or the strain of dealing with it were physically too much.

"I don't understand," she continued. "Just what are we supposed to do now? Why do these things happen when your father is not here?" the lady of the house complained.

Mary, who was normally as inconstant as a broken compass, was suddenly moved to show a near rabid loyalty, "Why do we need to do anything?" she wanted to know, and with that she changed sides of the room to stand nearer to Carson.

Lady Grantham was not taking the news nor the obvious defection well. "_Something_ must happen now. Not that I can drum up the proper British response. We don't have this problem in America. Where I am from the cook is supposed to be married to the gardener and give birth to little farm hands. And the occasional boot black."

She received near identical eye rolls from her daughters in response.

"Yes, and 60 years ago in America you called that 'slavery.' That doesn't help, Mother," Sybil said with a firmness that ceased to waver.

"Then, well, write or telephone your father." Lady Grantham stood then to pace across the carpet again. "Really, Carson, _**you**_ are supposed to be running this house! The pair of you are. Something like this should be your problem."

Lady Mary groaned at her mother's unwillingness or inability to confront the situation.

"When did you get married?" Sybil wanted to know of the Carsons.

"Six months ago when the family were in London, Mi'Lady. We drove over to Ripon." There was a sideways glance then. A quick shared look between husband and wife. At least one pair of eyebrows hovered a tad higher for a moment at the inescapable memories.

"Six months. See, Mother?" Mary demanded. "In six months the biggest problem has been that they are thought to have dressed in the same room!"

The unthinkable happened with that statement. Mrs Hughes coughed before regaining a normal breathing pattern, and Mr Carson blushed and quickly examined the ceiling.

"Mary's right," Sybil said. "It isn't as if we have suddenly had a rash of late meals or dusty rooms. It isn't as if the servants have run wild."

"But that is _**exactly**_ what your father is going to think happened in his absence," their mother fired back. She turned then and finally sat down again. "Carson, why did you have to do this?"

The question may have been rhetorical but Charles could not remain silent. "I'm in love with her, madam. And it's what I needed to do."

The room was rendered still then until the youngest Crawley daughter sighed with emotion. "Oh, Mother!" Sybil announced. "You can't possibly sack them now! That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard."

Mary took two steps to her mother then as if placing herself between her and the beleaguered couple. "You let them go, mother and I'll... "

Lady Grantham held up her hand to beg for quiet. "Really, we can't just hush this up. The staff must all know something by now with all these secret meetings," Cora tried to explain. She closed her eyes and pinched at her brow. The woman groaned then with the effort of finding a solution. It seemed an interminable pause for those who waited for the verdict.

With suddenly clear eyes and a firm jaw her Ladyship told the pair of servants, "There is only one thing to do. For all our sakes. We will tell people that we sanctioned this from the onset. Otherwise his Lordship and I look like complete dolts who've had the wool pulled over our eyes. And the two of you look like Communist conspirators."

"We'll throw a party," Sybil suggested.

"That may be taking it too far," Cora said, as she narrowed her eyes at her daughter.

"And an extra half day off for everyone!" Sybil exclaimed then. The young woman was too far gone to pick up on any of the silent daggers that her mother was projecting.

"Unless we have any other life altering pronouncements to make," Cora said, "I suggest we adjourn!"

...

Lady Grantham quickly excused herself.

If there is a pause to Sybil to wonder at propriety, it is unnoticeable to those who remain. With an untameable grin, she embraces them. First Mr Carson. And then Mrs. Carson. And she congratulates them again ... on their wedding and on 'love's triumph' before she leaves.

Moving much slower, as if a thousand thoughts are weighing her down, Mary approaches the couple. Once she has congratulated them in the most formal, but heart felt terms, Carson begs he be excused to see to household business.

"I should also..." Elsie began as her husband left.

"Mrs Hughes," Mary said to still her. "Thank you."

There was a pause while the two regarded each other. And finally Mrs. Hughes said softly, "I don't understand, Lady Mary. It is I who owes you our thanks."

"I want to thank you for making Mr. Carson happy. I can't explain other than to say that." She looked off at the door he has left through, as if she could still see him walking away. "That man has been like my knight all these years. The one person who never criticized and only supported me. And I am thrilled he has you... because it's obvious that it makes him... whole. Not that I _**ever**_ saw anything lacking."

Elsie was going to reply with 'it's been my pleasure,' but that would have seemed an unfortunate double entendre, she decided.

"Is there anything the two of you need," the young woman asked, "since you are living as married rather than hiding the fact. Does it mean anything below stairs needs to change?"

Ram rod straight and with nary a pause for thought, the older woman said simply, "A bed." And there was, remarkably and quite notably, absolutely nothing untoward in the request simply because of the way it was stated.

"Just... a bed?" Mary repeated, as much with her eyebrows as her mouth.

"Yes," Mrs Hughes said levelly. Her hands were clasped calmly in front of her and her eyes met the young woman's.

It was plain to Elsie that Mary could not understand the simplicity that was marriage at its most basic. But that she desperately wanted to.

If she had had the courage in that moment she surely would have asked.

…

"You told her we needed a bed?" her shocked husband demanded, as they lay together on their oversized couch that night.

"It was done in privacy and with decorum," Mrs Carson insisted.

"And how did she take it?"

"I thought she seemed to be trying to figure something out. As if she wished she could ask me something more. So, I merely told her, "It is the time and space to be together that makes a marriage. Once you find the right man - then there isn't much more you need. Just a place to which you can both retreat when your work is done. And the knowledge that your days can start and end together."

"You told her that?"

"Not with words, as such," his wife hedged. "But I do believe, she understands all that now." The woman smiled harder suddenly. " After all, I've heard Matthew Crawley has been invited over for dinner."

"So, I had heard," he replied sounding satisfied.

"Plus, Lady Mary told me the bed will be here next week."

"And better," he whispered into her neck, "so will we."

/ / / / /

Author's foot note: (And Miss O'Brien won't.)


End file.
